


Peter You're Going To Give Them All Heart Problems

by welove1stickyboi



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Im trying my best here, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sensory Overload, Sick Character, Sick Peter Parker, at least later my skills will have improved, but - Freeform, fakfajafjjzf, hello hi i am aware this sucks, how the hell do i tag, im not going to improve my writing if i dont know how to improve it i guess?, no beta we die like men, or like maybe not, so while i'll regret this later, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 00:51:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16006832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welove1stickyboi/pseuds/welove1stickyboi
Summary: 'Bubbles of conversations burst and popped and bloomed again right into his ears from nearby classrooms, books slammed on tables, and bags, and other books, and feet squeaked on linoleum floors and lockers clanged and a thousand ants tip-tapped their way through a wall with the rushing water beside them and water pipes creaked and groaned and honestly same and -“-eter,” the same person said in exasperation, and his attention jolted upwards.'





	Peter You're Going To Give Them All Heart Problems

**Author's Note:**

> i tried my best here? peter's pov is a little messy, but that's intentional eyo
> 
> i wrote this on my phone and i wanna lie facedown on the floor for a Good Length Of Time
> 
> i, myself, have experienced only a fraction of this severity in sensory overload? i tried to amplify that here BUT if i get anything wrong or leave anything out feel free to kick my ass in the comments and i will edit
> 
> the working title of this was 'live and LET'S CRY' so like. the title could have been so much worse
> 
> other working titles included:
> 
> Boy Do I Love Italics
> 
> Take A Shot Every Time The Author Attempts To Describe Light
> 
> There's Literally No Plot
> 
> Chicken Pad Thai Is NOT The Same As Chicken Noodle Soup
> 
> Dear God We Get It You Like Metaphors
> 
> and numerous others i will shut up now

Sometimes, you have big days, and you have small days.

 

On the big days, maybe you can pull off a presentation perfectly, run sweaty, sticky, throat-burning miles, and advise friends on their issues. On the big days, you can maybe go to parties, dazzle and charm in a way you know you can, and become the embodiment of  life and champagne. On the big days, you can maybe save the world.

 

On small days?

 

It's okay if you can't get out of bed.

 

God, he wished he could afford that.

 

Golden sun dripped through a crack in the curtains, folding itself around glowing specks adrift in the morning air, and falling on his face. It alighted on his messy curls, sending some strands a sparkling honey colour. Formerly smooth features twitched in annoyance. Then recognition. Annoyance. Disgruntled acceptance. Bleary doe eyes forced themselves open to face the day.

 

And immediately regretted it.

 

“ _Ah,_ ” Peter hissed as he squeezed his eyes shut and curled back into the duvet. The yellow of the sunlight had been achingly bright to look at through his closed eyelids, and opening them had sent a bolt of ice and lightning into his brain. He blinked fast, trying to get the purple imprint of the sun out of his vision.

 

The daffodil brilliance seeped through the cloth and it felt like it was pulling at his eyeballs. _(Ache.)_ In itself, the duvet was scratchy. Peter could feel every thread that it was made out of scraping across his skin and his hairs and he needed to _stop moving, Parker -_

 

And it was musty? Really musty. Every inhale made him cringe because _ew, ew, ew, ew, ew._ He buried his nose in his arms and tried not to breathe. It didn't help much. The air under here was rich with body heat. It felt thick and hot to his unwilling lungs, like it was made of molten dust. Breaths didn't work. Breaths didn't _work_ ? _Breathing wasn't working. Breathingwasn’tworkingbreathingwasntworkingbreathingwa-_

 

_STOP._ He told himself. _Think. Logical plan of action._

 

_You can't breathe_ _because the air smells too rank for your senses to take like a regular freaking human_ _being and it's too hot. What is the answer?_

 

His thoughts travelled sluggishly. They pressed on each corner of his mind, rolling through the motions. It was as though there was candy floss stuck on the walls of his thinking box and he needed to scrape it off to get a singular coherent idea together.

 

_… get out from where is_ _making you feel that way._

 

Problem?

 

_Think_.

 

He thought.

 

_The light’s too bright._

 

Answer?

 

_Think._

 

He thought.

 

_… disable it._

 

He squeezed his eyelids together. White sparks burst in front of the lightning glow behind them. His tongue felt numb. Very slowly, he clenched a fist around an area of duvet, then ripped it off like a plaster.

 

Pure _pain_ smashed into his skull and short-circuited his thoughts as he tried not to make any noise. _May is_ _asleep_. It still felt as though the sun was pressing itself against his eyes.

 

He shot back into a ball.  Burning eyes were pressed into kneecaps. The metal of the bed was blessedly cool against his bare feet. He staggered onto them, barely sturdy on his bedroom floor, throat feeling like it disappeared and head twisted into cotton strands. Stars exploded into white hot life in the sunflower hell. Stumbling over to the window, the tugging in his eyes nearly reached its peak when he touched the curtains and the threads grated over his _skin_ and his _hair_ and it was shifting his _clothes and they had threads too and oh my god ohmygodohmygod -_

 

He wrenched them shut.

 

Hands clutched around his abdomen in a pathetic excuse for reassurance.

 

His eyes were quiet. They kind of prickled, and his throat sort of felt really dry, but he can ignore those.

 

Letting himself half-trip, half-walk backwards, he fell back onto the bed. It was still too _hot._ The scent of the duvet rolled over him again. He gagged on reflex, but he _couldn’t inhale right._ Instinctually shoving away the duvet to become a crumpled mass at the end of the bed, he was immediately smacked across the nose by a similar smell from his sheets.

 

Peter felt like he was trapped in a burning building, fire roaring and creeping closer. Smoke seized his lungs with grey, ashy hands and squeezed. His throat was raw and he was tasting blood. Flame licked his skin. Beams were cracking and supports were groaning and people were screaming and he couldn't escape and it was _too much too much too much -_

 

_No._

 

Peter shot up and ran into the bathroom.

 

It was clean in here. There was air freshener in here. Peter snatched it off the shelf and sprayed until the bottle was light and the air was heavy with scent. He choked a little, and his head spun, but it blocked out everything else.

 

After just sitting there in the dark and smooth and clean for a while, he felt better.

 

***

 

The subway smells of sweat, and a mix of different perfumes with very-probably-French-names that he can’t differentiate, and that one guy’s shoe polish, and stale air mixed with gasoline, and a dog hidden in the bottom of someone’s handbag, and he can't really _breathe_ with all of the people pressed in on what feels like just him in goddamn particular, but it’s cool. It’s good. Today will be  good day, he’s determined.

 

(The early morning is dim yellow and blurred around the edges in his memory. Kind of like an old notebook. He ended up in the bathroom, with the air smelling strongly of lavender. He doesn't exactly know why.)

 

Music pours through his earphones as he adjusts them slightly, twisting the tiny pieces of plastic so he can survive the roar of the general public without wanting to fight something. Cotton rubs against his skin in a way that's more aggravating than usual, but he plays it off. He's worrying his lower lip as he clenches the handrail (warm from its last user) with more force than necessary (he doesn't need the thing anyway - _perfect balance, amirite_ ) and tries not to feel the tiny rough fibres ride up and down his skin at the slightest twitch and it's going to drive him insane and he needs to -

 

  * stop thinking about it.



 

So he tries. Deep breath in, short breath out. Up the volume.

 

“ _\- sometimes to stay alive you've gotta kill your mind! Am I the_ only _one I -”_

 

Ey.

 

***

 

“You good, man?”

 

The voice came from far away. It felt like it had travelled down an old subway tunnel, bouncing and echoing off the walls until a whisper of what it had once been reached him. The boy’s brain throbbed with a hot, pink ache behind his eyes just hearing that.

 

Ears feeling like they were  clogged with water and lethargy, Peter smiled at Ned, hoping the message was clear. His eyelids were heavy as though he’d been patrolling all night, which - yeah, he kind of had stayed up later than he'd supposed to. (May had told him off thoroughly, but softened when he told her about the series of crimes he’d stopped). He was a little bit tired.

 

One moment he’d be peering at his notes, and the next his hand would propping his head up as Ned gave him concerned glances. He’d just… black out. And it wasn’t something he could control. It instilled a fear in him that plunged his bones into ice water.

 

“... I'm,” he distantly heard himself say, “... I'm good.” His head spun in shades of purple that dappled his vision, a roulette wheel that kept landing on “ _the_ hell _am I doing_ ”. He had a test he couldn't afford to miss.

 

The piercing light he faintly recollected from the morning felt as though it was flooding through his brain and body and very soul, and it was _exhausting._ He wanted to run, hide, _not be here._ Quiet. _God, let quiet still exist._

 

The corridor they were in was the very same that housed their lockers. A few people had milled in and out,  but it was ultimately empty. Peter pressed his head against his own locker. Cold metal kissed his brow, and his knees suddenly felt very, very weak.

 

“ - _o_ , yo… _not_ ,” someone said firmly, gripping his shoulders and turning him around to face them. Peter gasped at the contact. It was electricity sparking into his skin through the clothes. Whoever they were, they were so very warm, and he was too hot already. He squirmed out of the hands, and his very shaky hold on reality swam. Sweat dripped from a curl and he jumped as a cool droplet flicked itself onto his roasting skin.

 

Warm snow slid up his spine in a horrible blush that washed all over. His cheeks were bright red, he betted. Peter dragged in another breath with not enough oxygen in it. Lungs expanded, deflated, but it didn't feel as though gas exchange was actually _happening_. Just going through the motions. Going through the motions. All he had to do was go through the motions.

 

Bubbles of conversations burst and popped and bloomed again right into his ears from nearby classrooms, books slammed on tables, and bags, and other books, and feet squeaked on linoleum floors and lockers clanged and a thousand ants tip-tapped their way through a wall with the rushing water beside them and water pipes creaked and groaned and honestly _same_ and -

 

“ _-eter,_ ” the same person  said in exasperation, and his attention jolted upwards. It felt like a foghorn. His headache flared, and he tried to hide his wince. Ned. He looked so _worried_. Why was he worried?

 

Peter tried to unstick his thoughts from his skull.

 

_Ohhhh._ They had the important test next period. The poor guy must be overthinking again.

 

“I got notes in my bag if you wanna look through them,” he managed breathlessly. It felt faint. Peter hoped Ned had heard.

 

Ned sounded done when he spoke next. “Y… know what? Sur… could you grab them fro… ur bag, b- dy?”

 

Peter leaned down -

 

 

  * __the world buzzed -__



 

 

\- and everything went black.

 

***

 

Peter dropped like a stone.

 

“Oh, _hell -_ ” Ned hurried to catch the teenager, dropping his books in the process. He lowered Peter down to the floor. The bell rang and Ned cursed. Late for class. “ _Oh_ , god. This,” He shook the unresponsive boy, “is,” He tapped him on the nose, “why,” He flicked his ear, and gained some groaning for his efforts, “You _talk_ to me, you idiot. _Stop doing that._ ”

 

Peter blinked up at him. “Sorry,” he muttered. Ned winced.

 

A few people made to walk through the corridor, but Ned flapped his hands in a gesture to _get._ They walked off, heads together and occasionally glancing back with wide eyes and furrowed brows. Peter tried to get up on his elbows to look at them (he'd probably heard what they'd said, knowing him) but Ned placed a light hand on his chest. Concerningly, that was enough to keep him down.

 

He shot off a quick text to Happy.

 

**Ned Leeds:** code fool

 

The reply beeped in almost instantly.

 

**Happy Hogan:** Severity?

 

(That was Happy-speak for “is he okay”. Ned smiled with half exasperation and half fondness, then switched back to the situation at hand.)

 

**Ned Leeds:** passed out

**Ned Leeds:** awake now

**Ned Leeds:** being weir about loud noises??

**Ned Leeds:** weird**

 

**Happy Hogan:** Sensory overload?

 

Happy didn't wait for a confirmation.

 

**Happy Hogan:** I'll be there in five.

 

Dropping his voice to a better level ( _sensory_ _overload_ , Ned felt like a _moron_ ), he said quietly, “You okay?”

 

Peter cracked a smile. “Fine.”

 

“Mhm. Just checking you haven't been possessed. You're not. Okay, by the way. You're not okay. Or possessed, ‘cause you just claimed to be okay. We had this conversation two minutes ago.”

 

The boy pushed himself into a sitting position against the lockers before dropping his head back against them. Ned watched him like a hawk. Colour had drained from Peter’s cheeks at the small action. He seemed to struggle to speak. “... we did?” he offered weakly.

 

“That _really_ shouldn't be a question, oh _god_. I'm getting you home, can you stand?”

 

Peter considered this. His eyes seemed vacant, and he was flinching at every tiny sound. “Yeah.”

 

“If I touch you, will you freak out?”

 

A breathless laugh was huffed from the teen. “Maybe a little bit.” He pressed his hand to the metal supporting him, and apparently made it stick there, because the next minute he was on his feet and leaning on it heavily. His eyelids were low, Ned noted worriedly.

 

“Do you have earphones?” Ned whispered.

 

“Yeah, in my b-” Peter reached a hand towards the floor to get his bag, and Ned hurriedly grabbed it first. Didn't want him passing out again.

 

“... didn't pass out,” came a murmured protest.

 

“My textbooks,” _Scattered_ _all_ _over the floor_ , “say otherwise.” He levelled a glare at the superhero. Said hero winced.

 

“That’s… embarrassing. Sorry.” Peter didn't meet his eyes. Ned sighed and passed him his tangled earphones, which the other boy spared him a grateful smile for.

 

“Dude, you say sorry more than you fall over. Stop. It's chill.”

 

In lieu of listening to him, the other boy tugged his phone out of his pocket. Peter plugged the device in and immediately braced himself against the lockers again as his legs threatened to buckle. The music blocked out all but the closest sounds and the absense of the pure _hell_ he’d been dealing with all day snatched the breath from his lungs. God bless Mozart.

 

Ned took a step forward, forehead crinkled once more, but Peter waved him off. He could do this. Go through the motions.

 

The lockers were featureless and easy under his touch, so he used them as his crutch as they made their way out of the school.

 

Eventually, they made it to the entrance. Peter was being supported almost fully by Ned at this point as he fought his closing eyelids. “Wait. Ned. We have a test,” Peter realised, suddenly a lot more awake. “I gotta take -”

 

“Nope. No, nuh-uh, not happening. You can retake it.”

 

“ _You can retake it_?”

 

“Funny. You were asleep when they mentioned that.”

 

“ _Ugh_.”

 

***

 

**Tony Stark:** I'm going to kill him

**Tony Stark:** I'm going to ground him forever

 

**Happy Hogan:** You're not his dad.

 

**Tony Stark:** What's that supposed to mean

 

“Get him inside, Leeds,” grunted Happy lowly. Leeds hid a smile as he mostly-dragged the kid out. “If he dies, Stark will kill me.”

 

The kid’s friend whispered a “thanks”. Happy’s response was to remind him to close the door.

 

Through the glass, big brown eyes met his. They blinked with some sort of emotion he couldn't place, but he suspected it was gratitude. God dammit.

 

This kid was going to be the death of him.

 

As he drove off, he felt for his mobile in his pocket. He had the kid’s aunt’s number, right?

 

***

 

“Of _course_ he gets sensory overloads, the kid’s a goddamn spider- _mess_ never mind _man_ -”

 

A flick of the wrist pulled up Peter’s vitals over the course of the day. Tony observed a huge spike in heart rate around after lunch and winced. That must’ve _sucked._

 

“FRIDAY, what triggers a sensory overload?” Tony knew, of course, but he needed to here it in plain words rather than the colours and sounds he'd experienced.

 

“ _Sensory overload can occur with the overstimulation of one or more senses, such as numerous people talking at once, or extremely bright fluorescent lighting. With Mister Parker’s ability to hear much more than the average person, this may have been much more stressf-_ ”

 

“Got it, _got it_ , FRI,” Tony waved a hand in dismissal. He drummed a beat on the worktable. “Senses, senses, senses.” _Spider-Man_ had the blocking senses thing covered, with his mask - Tony just forgot to consider _Peter Parker._ _Stupid._

 

He created a list in his mind.

 

_Hearing - some kind of wireless earphone that blocks sound?_

 

_Sight - glasses? Goggles? Goggles looked weird when you weren't a mad scientist or swimming. Glasses that turned into goggles? Glasses that turned into the_ mask _?_

 

_Touch - gloves. Smooth interior, must fit perfectly. Curse teenagers and their growing._

 

_Taste - ??? Not necessary. Go back to sleep, and starve._

 

_Smell - detergent in clothing that blocks out all smells? Device within nose? Flowers?_

 

He paused.

 

_Does Peter even like flowers?_

 

Yes. Pink peonies. The ridiculous fluffy pink cloud things. Peter liked those.

 

Tony set about making a few phone calls.

 

***

 

Later, a team of silent workers with the gleaming silver name _Stark_ sewn onto their uniforms replaced a teenage boy’s old curtains with thick blackout ones. They moved fluidly, quickly, and politely shook their heads at cups of coffee offered to them by the bemused aunt at his door. They’d watched her burn milk. It probably wasn't safe to digest.

 

The same aunt retreated into the kitchen where they got out a few cans and three orange packets of noodles and tried to make chicken noodle soup as quietly as possible. After five minutes, with orange powder in her hair, a new noodle necklace, and temptation winning out, she figured that chicken pad thai was basically the same thing. She pulled out her phone to order, and smiled at the three notifications.

 

**Tony Stark:** If they're making too much noise, kick them out

**Tony Stark:** _I_ would like to try your coffee

**Tony Stark:** ;)

 

**Happy Hogan:** I'll be picking him up on Saturday, if he hasn't got himself too bad.

**Happy Hogan:** Look after him.

 

When she tapped on that, only the former message of Happy’s showed up. Deleted, then. Aw. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She tapped in a reply to Happy.

 

**May Parker** : He'll be fine. Just needs some sleep :)

_(Read at 5:34pm.)_

 

The last notifications were from Ned. She scrolled through rambling and questions mixed with bursts of emojis before reaching the last few texts out of the string.

 

**Ned Leeds:** he’ll be ok right

**Ned Leeds:** bc he kinda freaked me out ngl

 

**May Parker:** He'll be absolutely fine, Ned. :)

 

Sometimes, you have big days and you have small days.

 

On the big days, you can save the world.

 

On the small days?

 

_(Peter Parker sleeps soundly in his room, swathed in clean sheets and affection. The duvet rises and falls to the steady rhythm of gas exchange. A mop of dark curls is just visible above the newly washed fabric._

 

_A single blushing peony is left resting on the desk as the uniformed men leave, and his phone lights up dimly with notifications. Peter doesn't stir._

 

_Burning buildings do not belong here. Only dark and quiet._

 

_Quiet still exists, it seems.)_

 

You recover from it.

**Author's Note:**

> this is to make up for There's A Kid, You Know bc that was terrible quality and terrible in general (I'M ALWAYS A SLUT FOR ANGST)
> 
> thank you for making it to the end of this trash sjsfzfjjzfjzf


End file.
